


darling, keep me warm

by ilia



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Oral Sex, Referenced Drug Abuse, Some canon-typical commentary on weight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21768697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilia/pseuds/ilia
Summary: He turns to catch Yuuri’s dark silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling tank of luminescent jellyfish.The beauty of it strikes Victor somewhere in the middle of his chest, Yuuri’s skinny hips and slender shoulders, his arms raising over his head almost subconsciously. They fan out from his abdomen and move in sync with the orbs at his front, a twisting dance to the rhythm of the strange music that plays over the hidden speakers.An act Victor suspects Yuuri never would have performed were he to suspect anyone was looking at him.His fingers twist around Yuuri’s hips before he can even realize he has approached the boy from behind.“Dancing without me?” Victor whispers, against the nape of Yuuri's neck.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 15
Kudos: 84





	darling, keep me warm

If Victor closes his eyes and tucks his jaw into the nook of his shoulder, he can still smell the rink. The aroma of manicured ice is strong, this he’s long since come to know, lingering for days after a tournament, and Victor wonders just how it is that he has not yet become so accustomed to its smell that he doesn’t notice it anymore.

When it comes with winning, Victor has a great fondness for the sharp scent; when his hair was long, it would remain until the next shower, and linger in his scarf for even longer until the wool became limp and in need of a dry-cleaning. Now, he finds himself drawn to the smell for another reason, too.

And however fond Victor might just be of said reason, Yuuri has overslept his welcome and then some that morning, and it is with a mild irritation that Victor assumes the role of waking the boy from his beauty sleep. His eyes peek open towards the remainder of the elevator’s occupants, and untucks his jaw before he gets even stranger looks from the crowd. He affords a particularly intrusive-seeming woman a wink before casually sliding up the thick wool cuff at his left and scrutinizing the timepiece underneath.

It’s ten-twenty in the morning in Beijing, and Yuuri is still fast asleep. And Victor, equal parts coach and enthusiastic tourist, will simply not stand for this form of laziness.

He sweeps from the elevator, succinct steps muffled by the hotel carpet as he traces the route towards Yuuri’s room; the little golden numerals upon the walls descend in indication he is nearing his pray. Victor raps twice on the door marked sixteen-eleven.

The boy who greets him is nothing like the one Victor remembers so vividly from the day prior; the fire has long since subsided in his eyes, which are covered by the thick protection of glasses. His hair is a mop, it is a bramble; it defies gravity, standing every way at once. Overall, Yuuri is less hard planes than he is blurred at the edges—a lethargic boy who has just been awoken from a nap, not a man who has well and earned a respectful spot at the Russian Grand Prix.

Victor tilts his head; he narrows his eyes, and squints at Yuuri as though watching him made unsubstantial from sleep is not one of the most charming things he’s seen in his twenty-seven years.

“And do you plan on spending our last day in Beijing sleeping then, _knyázhna_?

“Victor!” Yuuri rubs at his eyes from behind the glasses, and Victor takes the luxury of indulging in the look of outrage upon the boy’s features. “You woke me.”

“You overslept,” Victor counters, and lets himself into the room with no more than a smile the boy’s way.

It’s the same size and spread as Victor’s a floor below, and it’s astonishingly neat. Victor’s lips twist at what he’s come to recognize as one of Yuuri’s stranger quirks, fingers trailing over the opened suitcase. Were he to return to an apartment after winning first at a Prix, he would drop his clothes in the very spot he had seen fit to take them off and leave the place in a state of disarray befitting an afterparty even before a drip of celebratory liquor had touched his parched lips. But Yuuri is compulsively organized; folding his things, hanging his leotard, aligning his shoes at the entryway.

Victor lets the fabric slip through his fingers from where he’s inspecting the closet.

Yuuri’s cheeks are still warm when he glances back, and Victor bites back a comment; instead, he flops upon the unmade bed, lifting his arms high above his head, stretching the vertebrae in his back until they’re all even.

When he glances up, Yuuri is more enflamed than ever, and Victor grants the boy the toothiest smile in his repertoire.

“Shower?” He suggests, fingers trailing along the soft bedsheets beside him. “Unless you’d prefer to come keep me company instead?”

Yuuri opts for a shower, and Victor keeps his eyes on the boy’s slender frame until he’s absconded into the restroom.

Then, his elbows give out; he falls upon the mattress with an _oomph_ of breath.

So it is strained between them, he thinks, and something inside the cavity of his own chest swells until it feels as though he may burst from the inside out. Yesterday’s flub has unsettled something between them; Yuuri’s dark, warm eyes everywhere but Victor’s face, and Victor wanting so badly to reach out and _touch_ as he has before and yet, not feeling comfortable doing so. Victor tosses an arm over his eyes, and expels a long breath in the quiet of the hotel room.

Vaguely, through the wall to his left, he can hear the shower’s steady thrum against the porcelain tub.

Victor’s fingers skirt along his full bottom lip, tracing the shape from one corner to the other. He can still feel the tantalizing press of Yuuri’s against them.

Thousands of kisses given away frivolously in his twenty-seven years, and this is the one that does him in. Oh, he almost scoffs at the irony. Thousands of pretty, limber skaters in the world, and he has to catch the video of the boy who dances as though he is plucking the strings of a cello with each smooth movement of his elbows and fingers. And still after all these months, when Yuuri skates Victor cannot seem to look elsewhere.

Though yesterday, he had stared for so long, he had not been able to contain himself. Yesterday, he acted without thinking. It’s a mistake, Victor recognizes it, a misstep of the ages between client and coach. 

He grimaces, and lets his lashes drag along the heavy woolen sleeve of his peacoat.

A mistake, he told himself again, ignoring the tightness in his chest as he tasted a whisper of the words against his tongue. A mistake, he had repeated, absconding into bed the evening prior with nothing but a quick kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head. A mistake, as he had laid there in the nude, as his mind had wandered to the slender glossy line of his phone and to the idea of texting Yuuri and asking him to come down.

If it would be so horrible for them to coil around one another as they sometimes do, to share breath and watch something neither of them can understand on the television; to order room service, something fatty for the piggy who deserves it just the once, for Yuuri to keep him warm. After all, there were some minutes after that moment, as they lingered at the kiss-and-cry, the way Yuuri’s fingers wrapped around his and pushed almost painfully into his wrist, that had Victor thinking perhaps it had not been as grave an error after all.

But then there had been press, press and stolen glances Yuuri had not returned and too many questions into _what that had been out there on the rink_ , so many flashing cameras and probes and Victor could have almost felt his own flesh harden against the intrusiveness; by the session’s end, all he'd wanted was to curl up with his Makkachin and sleep a decade and a half.

And again, by daylight, all he had desired was to have Yuuri’s warm body, sharp eyes, and curious fingers with him in that bed.

The bathroom door opens with a cloud of steam; Yuuri, half dressed, enters from the midst of it. Victor gathers the pieces of himself he’s scattered across the bedspread and aims a grin the boy’s way.

“There we go, that’s much better,” Victor hums, and stands. Beside the bar’s mirror, Yuuri has deposited some of his bathroom items; Victor plucks up a bottle of hair gel and deposits an amount into his hand. Enough that it will hold Yuuri’s unruly hair.

It’s to Yuuri’s credit that he doesn’t flinch as Victor reaches towards him, slicking his hair against the crown of his head as he stands half nude in the hallway of his little hotel suite.

“I thought this was only for competitions,” Yuuri objects, in that soft way that makes him sound as though he is not really complaining at all. 

Victor’s fingers pause at the nape of Yuuri’s neck, one more languid stroke away from perfection. Curious, warm eyes, now unobscured, peer so intensely at him that he considers taking a step back in a feigned shock.

Instead, he settles on another grin.

“You have a pretty face,” Victor says, and his own tone is soft with truth. “It’s a shame to hide it behind that curtain of hair.”

Yuuri’s eyes blaze with a fierce pride.

They peruse the glossy booklets deposited upon Yuuri’s table and decide on the Beijing aquarium, Victor with excitement and Yuuri with a scrutinizing look and the throw-away comment that enthusiasm makes Victor act even more the child, and rather than retort, Victor shrugs off the ill-manner without further ado. He can’t find it in him to be upset. They’ve nestled together to browse the city’s offerings as they come together to do just about anything. Yuuri sits at the desk, and Victor leans over him, and as he stoops to retrieve the brochure, Yuuri’s jaw brushes his wrist.

They hail a taxi outside the hotel; Yuuri directs the driver from his cell phone’s directions, and Victor counts the colorful bills they’ll use to pay. Victor sits on the left, Yuuri in the center, and when they turn onto the highway and the time between directions stretches out, their knees touch comfortably.

And after twenty minutes of it Yuuri still hasn’t pulled away, and Victor’s gut rolls in a not unwelcome joy. He hums along to the music on the radio, and Yuuri just about smacks him for how he has butchered the melody—grand as Victor may be at skating and dancing, he cannot carry a tune to save his life.

“Then you sing, pretty boy,” he teases, and is rewarded with a disgruntled, flustered look.

The thick wall of tension between them has eased somewhat as the car pulls to the aquarium’s entrance, less of an impenetrable wall and more an opaque, absorbent cloud. It’s more comfortably than not that Victor’s flesh prickles whenever Yuuri nears, and at all times, he’s particularly aware of where Yuuri is standing adjacent to him, and he finds that he likes that too.

It’s a grand masterpiece within, glinting metallics and sculptural elements and the clean smell of disinfectant to one side and the wafting allure of fried food he absolutely _should not_ have on the other. Victor looks over his shoulder as he poses underneath the sweeping, open antechamber.

“How do I look?” His lashes dance as his bangs settle above an eye, the pose outlandish enough to capture the glances of the museumgoers around them.

Yuuri, to his credit, looks bemused underneath the strain of embarrassment. “Like you’re trying to get someone’s attention.”

Victor laughs.

They continue into the tunnels alight with the sporadic colors of fish and anemone, Yuuri’s face lighting up as he peers into the various tanks, and as much as Victor wishes he could do justice to the little creatures he can hardly look their way. Instead, he’s fascinated by the way the blue light illuminates the planes of Yuuri’s cheeks, flattening his glasses and catching on his hair until he is rendered so beautiful Victor can hardly breathe with it.

His brow is flat, his eyes lidded and tight-cornered and his lips may look small, but they’re plump and sensitive, Victor knows this from experience, from the hasty, discombobulated way their mouths brushed the day prior and the trembling of Yuuri’s fingers as they plucked one another up off the ice, Yuuri unable to look Victor’s way and Victor feeling every part the shy teenager he had thought he’d kissed, touched, and fucked out of him long ago.

But there’s something about Yuuri that brings it back in him, the same kind that makes Victor want to lay his head upon Yuuri’s chest and watch movies and toy with his hair, an innocent, bubbling feeling he’s only come in arm’s length of before. And perhaps he should have known better the night he saw Yuuri’s dance, sitting on a bottle of pills, clutching to Makkachin as though the sweet old poodle was the last warm thing in the world. Unstable, and lonely, and looking anywhere but forward.

And then he had seen Yuuri’s dancing and it was as though he had been set aflame through the screen itself.

So Victor had left it all behind; his five gold medals, the majority of his wardrobe, his friends, the boy he was going to call over for some fun that evening; Russia. He left for the skater who dances the sound of music into the rink, for the shy glances and the feminine jut of hips that is just enough to drive Victor mad.

Victor presses his fingers against the cool siding of a tank, and inhales hastily.

“Victor?” Yuuri’s tone is hesitant, and Victor looks up in time to catch something small and spotted dart behind an anemone, and Yuuri’s big, curious eyes on him. “Victor, are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

A thick line draws between the boy’s brows. “You look weird.”

“Oh I do, do I?” Victor grins. “And just what makes you think that’s language befitting your coach, _solnyshko?”_

“And just when have you ever acted like a real coach?”

He laughs so loudly that the other patrons look their way in shock; that the sound is reverberating off of the tall sheets of glass about them and Yuuri has a strange, strangled look on his face.

“Come. Come, let’s go further,” Victor decides, and captures Yuuri’s fingers in his own before the boy can object.

They travel deeper into the aquarium, away from the ruckus of children, winding down aquamarine pathways until they are both lost and the hallways have emptied. It has a certain magical ambiance, this empty wing, a tinkling, eerie music sounding over hidden speakers above them and the ultraviolet glow from the tanks seeping out of the glass and staining them with light. Victor occupies himself with an exhibit with creeping eels that twist just out of sight, a lithe, patterned form against the painted walls.

He turns to catch Yuuri’s dark silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling tank of luminescent jellyfish.

The beauty of it strikes Victor somewhere in the middle of his chest, Yuuri’s skinny hips and slender shoulders, his arms raising over his head almost subconsciously. They fan out from his abdomen and move in sync with the orbs at his front, a twisting dance to the rhythm of the strange music.

An act Victor suspects Yuuri never would have performed were he to suspect anyone was looking at him.

Such a strange, wonderful boy who skates music against ice and dances to the rhythm of fish. Victor swallows in appreciation.

His fingers twist around Yuuri’s hips before he can even realize he has approached the boy from behind.

“Dancing without me?” He whispers, to the shocked leap of Yuuri’s shoulders, lips against the nape of the boy’s neck, head bent just so. It’s an intimate sensation, but a familiar one, not unlike the way he holds Yuuri before he relinquishes the boy to the ice and the judges and the thrill of the music. Oh, that they might share a space one last time before Yuuri surpasses him forever.

Yuuri twists around, and this time Victor is unsurprised at the blazing look upon the boy’s fine features. He takes Yuuri’s waist; in turn, Yuri’s arms slip around his neck.

“Ever danced before?” It’s quiet and completely empty, but still, Victor finds himself whispering, coiling his tongue around the words so that they find Yuuri delicately. “With a partner.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “But I’m a fast learner.”

“That you certainly are.”

It’s smooth from the very beginning. Victor leads, angling the sharp line of his jaw so that Yuuri has a clear indication of just how to follow and where he will step next. Their feet avoid one another’s with ease—much to Victor’s satisfaction, as he would rather his fine oxfords remain unscratched some seasons further—and their chests brush. Their accompaniment is the strange melody, something sorrowful and somehow still filled with wonder, and Yuuri is warm at his front, and Victor’s eyes lid.

He peers out the murky haze of silver lashes at the world beyond. Yuuri blurs at the edges, dancing and spinning when Victor lifts an arm in a prompt and so beautiful against the background of the grandiose jellyfish tank that Victor must clench his jaw to keep from acting on the more carnal of his desires.

The shower seems to have reignited the fire that blazes just behind Yuuri’s eyes, and it’s a relief for Victor to see. Yesterday he had watched Yuuri’s fragile skater’s heart break beneath the rough encouragement of his own words; today he supposes it has mended, sutured by self-confidence and joy and maybe a little of the trembling touch the both of them shared, and Victor is proud.

Proud, and a little jealous in so long he has not been able to do the same, to piece together the jagged parts of his own will and just _feel better_. How long has it been since he has felt normal and not as though a gear inside him has slipped out of place?

And still, how long has it been since he’s been fundamentally unhappy?

Yuuri, he thinks, opening his eyes again to take in the boy’s full beauty. Yuuri, it’s all been Yuuri. Victor can’t remember the last time he spent a day in bed, too listless to do anything but sleep and coil his fingers around the tight knit of Makkachin’s fur, since Yuuri.

It takes a skeptical, questioning look from the boy’s warm brown eyes to realize he’s stopped dancing. It takes three steps forward to back Yuuri against the tank of jellyfish.

“Victor?” Yuuri asks, a flush high on his cheeks. Victor rubs his nose along the heat, and Yuuri shudders, and the next time he calls Victor’s name, his voice is subdued. “Vic—Victor?”

“I know I didn’t ask before,” Victor admits, hair in his eyes, fingers on Yuuri’s neck. His thumbs tilt up the shorter boy’s jaw. “Is this okay with you, Yuuri?”

“Now you want to know?” Beneath the breathlessness, Yuuri sounds bemused. “After you kiss me in front of a stadium of people, you think now is—“

Victor kisses him before he can think better of it, and Yuuri’s words turn to an anomalous sound in his throat as his lips are covered.

It’s messy because he can’t tell just which one of them is trembling harder. It’s warm, puffs of air from their lungs from the movement of dancing blast them in the face. But Victor kisses roughly, he twines his fingers in Yuuri’s hair and dislodges it from its strict hold and kisses until he can’t feel anything anymore other than the press of Yuuri’s body on his, and the taste of his mouth as their tongues brush, and the resonating hammer of his heart in his chest as Yuuri kisses him back.

A hand steadies them against the tank, and Yuuri’s leg twines around Victor’s thigh as their kisses quicken, as they seek to eliminate any space between them and Yuuri’s glasses are squashed in the process.

It’s thrilling in its novelty, it has him yearning in its innocence. They coat their lips with the taste of one another, and Yuuri’s fingers ruin Victor’s hair, muss his lapel, undo the neat tuck of his scarf, and Victor doesn’t mind because it means Yuuri is touching him, touching him and gasping for breaths that are quickly suppressed with kisses until Victor’s head is spinning and he thinks he might faint right here in the eerie room illuminated by the opalescent jellyfish.

Oh, he’s lost himself, he’s gone, he’s stepping willingly into the trap that is the little sounds from Yuuri’s throat as Victor nibbles on his bottom lip and the tightening of Yuuri’s arms as Victor makes to pull away. So he doesn’t, so instead he presses Yuuri harder to the cool glass slick with their own perspiration, because he hasn’t wanted like this in years, perhaps he hasn’t wanted like this before at all.

_Seduce me_ , he’s told Yuuri as they stand upon the precipice of the ice or work their taut muscles at the barre, again and again, and oh, how Yuuri has succeeded.

The next time he makes to disentangle himself is prompted at the sound of voices in the hallway, and it’s unwillingly that he does, delighted by the pout on Yuuri’s mouth and the flush on his cheeks and the way the inside of the boy’s glasses fog when Victor breathes a certain way. 

He slides their noses together a moment linger, and exhales hot air until the glass is steamy, and laughs, delighted, as Yuuri scowls and wipes at them with his fingers.

“We’ve given the fish quite a show.”

“A habit of yours, I think, giving shows like this,” Yuuri pants, and wipes hastily at the fingerprints across the glass as the voices grow louder. He seems unsure about the act of standing at all, Victor notices victoriously, and he has to resist preening.

Still got it.

Victor coils his fingers between Yuuri’s, and tugs in the opposite direction, and then again, when Yuuri makes no effort to budge.

“We have fish to see,” he reminds the boy, with a smile.

The look Yuuri affords him is blazing, and it’s a brazen step forward he takes as the chamber fills with traffic, voices resonating off of the walls as their footsteps had only minutes prior, blurring into a static as Victor is rendered helpless underneath Yuuri’s focus.

“Or we could leave instead,” Yuuri suggests, and there’s a lurch in Victor’s gut he hasn’t felt in some time. Yuuri’s fingers are on his waist, and they squeeze just enough that Victor will be feeling it for days longer, the touch, the way they tremble. “We could leave, and return to the hotel. Maybe I’m tired of the aquarium.”

Yuuri has that face on, the one he gets when he skates to the rink’s center to steal away the breaths and hearts of the audience in full, a look in his eye that says he will not be denied his chance, and it’s not Victor’s to tell that face no, not while he still has its taste on his own tongue.

It’s hastily that Victor concatenates his willpower, compartmentalizes his desire to taste it again right then and there, tourists and children be damned.

“Tired already? What have you done with all that legendary stamina?” His chide is softer than he intends it to be, and he punctuates it with a squeeze to Yuuri’s jaw. “Come on, then, kitten. We’ll get you home and into bed.”

When he gathers the nerve to check, Yuuri’s cheeks are as red as a streetlight.

It takes them some time to find their way out of the labyrinthine aquarium hallways, down the sloping steps and into a taxi they hail a little too intently, and still Victor doesn’t seem able to keep his heart from slamming into his chest or the greed from his hands. They coil about Yuuri’s wrists insistently, through his hair and hang from the opened loop of a button on his jacket as they shiver on the streetcorner. 

The car’s door closes, and their eyes don’t meet; Yuuri looks forward, and Victor out the window. It’s with nails digging into his palms—a nasty habit Victor’s maintained from a year or so prior, ever since the night he chopped at his own hair and had no more to twirl relentlessly when nerves nipped at him—that he resists rearranging his scarf, his lapel, flattening his bangs.

Yuuri’s fingers find his own, and Victor flashes him a smile, anything to cover up the nerves that nip at him, the creeping sensation of doubt.

It’s not that he doubts Yuuri, never Yuuri, the boy who might be fickle when performing his quads but is resolute and solid and always there. It’s that Victor seems to break the things he handles, much like the effortless manner in which he snapped Yuuri’s heart in two only yesterday. Sometimes he feels he is a little too cold, a little too distant, for the world’s warmer things.

He skates in the chill of the artificially frozen rink until he can’t feel it anymore, until the frivolous pretty bodies that keep him warm at night and leave when the early hours of the day come upon them are exactly what he needs, until Victor can coil into himself and be happy enough with the result they have left behind.

Yuuri’s temple settles on his shoulder, and the strained sensation has returned to Victor’s chest, pressing against his ribcage until he can’t quite breathe properly. He wonders vaguely, fingers ascending to Yuuri’s dark, mousse-stiffened hair, if he’ll ever be comfortable like that again.

They enter the hotel quickly, and ascend the elevator in a silence more strained than not, fingers not leaving the cage of one another’s all the while. And when Yuuri’s floor arrives, they tighten even more, daring Victor to let go and leave him to an early afternoon alone.

Victor obliges, and steps out of the elevator after Yuuri, following him down the familiar route to the room.

Victor is hardly afforded a glance of the freshly made interior before Yuri’s on him again, hands at Victor’s shoulders that hit the wall with the soft, muffled sound of his peacoat.

Yuuri stands on his toes, and this time he kisses Victor first, and it’s all Victor can do to wrap his arms around the boy’s waist and cling on while he is ravaged.

It’s sloppy. Yuuri’s panting gasps blast heat between them and fogs his glasses, and his hands are everywhere at once, and when Victor touches the curve of his back, he gives a tremendous shudder. Victor wonders, not for the first time, just how far it is Yuuri’s even gone with a man, if this is his first time kissing and even feeling for one at all. Victor himself has been around the block enough to know figure skaters to be more open than other professions, slipping into one another’s beds at night or touching a little too candidly as they stretch or work at the barre. But the look in Yuuri’s eyes isn’t fearful, the bold jut of his knee between Victor’s legs certainly doesn’t feel it either; his hands rest against the flat of Victor’s chest as they kiss.

Yuuri shifts just so, and Victor’s hips roll, the stiff press of his erection in the meat of Yuuri’s thigh.

“Victor,” Yuuri moans, so wanton Victor can hardly contain himself from slipping his hands down further and grasping at the boy’s ass, and it’s only as Yuuri pulls back and Victor’s silver hair disentangles from his dark lashes that Victor notices he is trembling.

His fingers run along Yuuri’s jaw. This isn’t necessary, there’s no need for Yuuri to make good on his promise, just the chance to look over and grant him the pecks of kisses as they are together is more than enough for him; the chance to fulfill one or both elements of the kiss-and-cry will be enough.

“Yes, _moy lubimyi?”_

Yuuri blinks, and then again, and it’s only then that Victor notices his eyes are glossy with tears.

“Yuuri, we don’t have to,” he breathes, and strokes the boy’s fine hair back again. Victor’s gaze catches at Yuuri’s collar. “We don’t, if you don’t want to. There are other things—“

Yuuri’s fist hits him square in the middle of his chest; not hard, never hard, but still Victor starts. Amusement shines on every line of Yuuri’s young face.

“Not want to?” He asks, and laughs, and presses his own hips into Victor’s thigh, enough so that Victor can feel just how much he, too, _wants_. “You must really be an idiot, Victor Nikiforov.”

“I am, darling.”

It’s something about the word, perhaps, the way it rolls off Victor’s tongue, but Yuuri smashes back against him, tighter, aggressive; their hips drag along one another’s and the sensation there makes them moan in unison.

“Yuuri.” There’s a fire churning in Victor’s stomach, goaded on with each press of Yuuri’s hips. It’s delectable friction, a heat that has his head reeling. It hitches somewhere in his belly; his arms wind their way up Yuuri’s back. The tips of his fingers dig a little too roughly into Yuuri’s shoulders.

Stay.

Oh, god, stay, Yuuri, he wants to beg, but he can’t move, rendered useless beneath Yuuri’s careful look and adoring touches. Stay, and look at me like that every morning, look at me as though I am worth something more than my medals, more than my body, more than what I will do to shock and awe next season.

He’s so aroused, he can’t think straight. If Victor is honest with himself, he’s been hard since they danced at the aquarium, since he felt the slip of Yuuri’s little waist underneath his fingers and thought a little too much about how well that waist fits in his hands.

Yuuri’s tongue is in his mouth, and Victor sucks at it greedily. His fingers creep up to the heat of flesh underneath Yuuri’s soft tee, and in return, Yuuri’s fingers clutch at his belt.

And then, they slip, a finger, and then two, probing at the fine hair underneath.

Victor jolts. “Ah—“

“Please,” Yuuri gasps, and his eyes are dark and pleading as they look up towards Victor. “Please, Victor, please let me—“

Lower. A brazen finger hitches around the base of Victor’s cock. The crown of his head hits the solid wall as Victor’s neck gives out.

“Yuuri,” he breathes, and then again, the touch of Yuuri’s soft finger. “ _Ne ostanavlyvaysya,_ _solnyshko.”_

It’s not that Yuuri hasn’t seen him exposed before, but still the boy hasn’t seen him quite like this, not undone as Victor is now, flushed and ruddy-lipped, squirming, gasping, a way many pretty boys have seen Victor before but still, there’s something different in the dark way Yuuri looks at him. Something tender in the infinitesimal ring of brown the boy’s dilated eyes have become.

And still it’s nothing he’s experienced before, every centimeter of his skin alight with the need to be touched, the way he jolts as Yuuri’s hand wraps about his girth, still constricted by the tightness of his slacks, and begins to pump.

He’s gasping, panting short breaths; his arms are scrabbling against the bare wall to find anything to hold on to.

And then, with a final evaluative look, Yuuri drops to his knees.

“Yuuri, Yuuri,” Victor moans, fingers coiling in Yuuri’s hair for a lack of anything else to merely hold on to, the sheer reality of the situation pummeling him. “Yuuri, _bolshe_ , kitten. Love. _Dostavlyat’ udovol’stviye_.”

The cool air is a shock to his senses as his pants drop; he doesn’t need to look, too wound up, eyes closed too tightly to know his cock bobs in the air, obscene, between them.

And then Yuuri’s lips are on him, and Victor lets out a wanton moan.

It’s heaven; wet, and warm, and tentative, lips trailing his length, lingering at the slit, a gentle tongue darting out to catch the beads that have formed at the entrance. Oh, it’s good, the irredeemably gentle touch, the tease that has Victor asking, again and again, more. Please, please, more, Yuuri.

Yuuri takes him into his mouth, and Victor almost sobs with relief.

His arms brace himself upon the wall, one smashed into the corner, the other at the rim of the bathroom’s entrance, and he puffs from his mouth as Yuuri swallows him halfway, and then again, pausing to control his gag reflex, pausing to allow Victor’s anticipation to build. The cool air hits his cock again and again and Victor tenses every time, and when Yuuri’s mouth is back around him, his eyes roll into his head with pleasure.

It’s been some time since he’s allowed himself to be messed up quite like this, left ragged and wanton and needing, too afraid to touch and take for himself, too impatient to do much else other than squirm, and moan, and feel as much as he can from the position he’s in. It’s been some time since his mandated antidepressants had him feeling much of anything at all. But god, Yuuri changes all of it, his lips working a bold rhythm on Victor’s cock, and Victor’s hips jolt as his orgasm rushes closer.

“I won’t last,” he warns in a gasp, and his eyes fly open. “Yuuri, I won’t last, love, please if you want—"

Yuuri stops; for a moment, their eyes meet, Yuuri’s lips still encircled around the base of Victor’s cock, and then he continues.

Relentless. Rough. A rhythm that stays true until Victor is almost there, and then backs away. He swallows Victor’s cock until Victor is positively trembling, calling out, bothering the hotel’s occupants, he can’t even think to care.

“Yuuri,” he gasps, cock twitching and leaking at the impossibly soft rear of Yuuri’s throat, and Yuuri only responds with a finger between his cheeks, sliding, pressing, until it’s at his hole.

Victor can’t take it, none of it, not anymore; that last touch is his very undoing, and he finishes in a shout. His hips tremble a merciless rhythm as he comes, plastering the insides of Yuuri’s mouth and slipping down his jaw when his lips slide away too early.

He’s done in, ragged, stunned, chest heaving, still dressed in his boots and his peacoat and even his scarf, and at his feet Yuuri looks just as shocked as Victor feels. He looks at his hands, as though seeking the additional validation that it was he who made it happen at all. They close into loose fists.

Victor sinks to the floor with him, breathing heavy, sweat trailing down his temple and across his jaw; he takes Yuuri’s face in his hands, and kisses him, and cleans up the trail of his own seed from Yuuri’s cheek.

“Wow,” Victor tells him finally. “Wow.”

They collapse into a heap around one another, Victor with his slacks wound about his knees and Yuuri’s head at his chest, breathing heavily, wiping at his mouth while Victor’s fingers brush back his hair.

“You talented, beautiful man,” Victor breathes, and laughs. He wonders vaguely if Yuuri can hear the vibration in the hollow cavity of his ribs.

Yuuri speaks, and his breath is uneven. “Was that okay?”

“I’m not sure _okay_ could ever quite encapsulate something like that."

And then Victor laughs, he laughs at the obscenity of it all; of being caught with his pants half down, and the fear that had ravaged him that seems just so irrational now, and he laughs of the joy that Yuuri is still here. He clutches Yuuri to his chest for a moment longer, and stands in a languid motion, hitching up his slacks.

“Come,” he insists, and holds out a hand to help Yuuri to his feet, and as Yuuri staggers up, Victor catches his mouth in another kiss. And when he pulls away, Yuuri’s gaze is soft, less of a wildfire and more the glowing embers in a hearth.

And still, he can tell just how much Yuuri still wants; the front of his jeans are tented, the irises in his eyes are blown, and Victor will certainly not let him go without being taken care of now. It's gently that he leads Yuuri to the newly done bed, and pulls him down, and awards him kiss after kiss for his fine work.

And if they’re lucky, after Yuuri has finished, they’ll coil around one another like Victor has dreamed about; and if they’re lucky, they’ll be there to warm one another when morning comes, too.


End file.
